“I guess that’s how come that man finally
worked hisself to death like he done. Like he was
fighting his own war with this here world”
—Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun
you a Black Man so you pick up that shovel
and get to work.
but your shovel ragged as earth,
and your hands so bruised it’s hard to see the human underneath.
but you keep smiling cause you a Black Man,
and nobody want hear you cry.
you got two children at home,
malleable as glue,
sweeter than fruit.
they got that look in they eyes,
that same look that you lost,
like they wanna do something with they lives,
like they life is a toy box they haven’t gotten to the
bottom of.
and you a Father, so you gon keep them dreams pulsing
for as long as you can.
you see your Wife lying quietly in bed,
heavy breath rising and falling, tide in the sea.
you see her wrinkles that match yours,
them tired eyes she can’t erase,
so you work harder,
cause you a Husband,
and you want bear that burden.
years later you find yourself in a hospital bed,
wondering why your back hurt so much,
why it feel like you got so much life going on
but not enough to give.
You lying there immobile and regretting.
regretting that shovel.
regretting that burden.
but you done worked yourself to death.
it’s too late for regrets now, Black Man.
